


A Secret Place

by theimprobable1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hugs, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While taking care of a concussed Sherlock, John makes some deductions of his own and discovers things he'd rather not know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Secret Place

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [yalublyutebya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya) for beta services!

“I’m _fine_ , John,” Sherlock said, doing his best impression of a petulant five-year old. “No need to make a fuss.”

“Making sure you get some rest while you’re _concussed_ isn’t making a fuss,” John said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook on the door. They had just successfully caught a jewel thief, but not before the man had managed to hit Sherlock over the head with a broken-off table leg.

“I don’t need rest. I need a case.” Sherlock’s voice was determined, but he slumped on the sofa without taking off his coat and didn’t look like he had the energy to get up again.

“You just solved one, and got yourself bashed up in the process,” John reminded him. “It’s time for bed. Come on, get up.” He gripped Sherlock’s arm and pulled him up. Sherlock made a displeased noise.

“You should go home,” Sherlock told him. “What will Mary think?”

“Mary will think I’m a useless doctor and bad friend if I leave you alone when you’re clearly a danger to yourself. I need to keep an eye on you, or you might decide to just run off somewhere.” John guided Sherlock gently towards his bedroom, less because Sherlock needed support and more because he wanted to make sure Sherlock would actually obey for once.

“I promise I’ll go to sleep and set an alarm for every two hours and call you when I wake up. You don’t need to stay. No need to trouble yourself.”

John looked at him. “What, are you being _considerate?_ Then I’m definitely staying, because this sounds much worse than just a concussion.”

Sherlock glared at him but didn’t say anything more as he tugged off his scarf and started dropping his clothing on the floor. John left him to it and went to the bathroom in search of painkillers.

The bathroom was surprisingly clean, no pig heads in the bath like the last time, but there were, once again, several unmarked bottles in the medicine cabinet. John sighed. It was more difficult to keep Sherlock from living in a constant state of biohazard ever since John had moved out. John had managed to teach Sherlock it was important to label things, but clearly Sherlock didn’t find it necessary any more now that he lived alone.

He found a packet of paracetamol and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. There were five different types of coffee maker set out on the counter. John couldn’t tell if it was for an experiment or if Sherlock had simply decided he wanted more variety in his morning beverage of choice.

He filled a glass (rinsing it before just in case) and went back to the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting on the bed in his sleepwear, blinking at John blearily. His clothes were in a heap on the floor, which was so un-Sherlock-like that it actually made John a little worried.

“All right?” he asked, checking the relative sizes of Sherlock’s pupils just to be sure.

“Head hurts,” Sherlock said. “Tired.”

“That’s what you get for not listening to me when I tell you to stay back,” John chided him, but the anger he’d felt at Sherlock’s recklessness before had now largely dissipated, replaced instead by a tender feeling of protectiveness. “Take this.” He handed Sherlock two tablets and watched as Sherlock drained the glass and carefully settled his head on the pillow.

John picked up Sherlock’s clothes from the floor and draped them over the back of a chair, knowing it was better to do it than to listen to Sherlock complain about his wrinkled shirt in the morning. Sherlock was curled up on his side, eyes closed, when John turned back to him. John pulled the covers over him carefully, and then, without thinking about it, he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He didn’t realise what he was doing until Sherlock very obviously turned his face into the touch.

John froze for a moment, suddenly aware of the strangeness of the situation, but then he continued with another, slightly more hesitant caress. Sherlock hummed appreciatively, and it was impossible not to see that he liked it – and so John sat down at the edge of the bed and proceeded to stroke Sherlock’s hair continuously, mindful not to brush against the spot where Sherlock had been hit.

John wondered if Sherlock was acting out of character because he’d got a blow to the head, or if the concussion had just made him act on an impulse he’d always had but usually repressed. Something squeezed painfully inside John’s chest. He and Sherlock didn’t touch – not affectionately, at least, not just for the sake of touching. They had hugged exactly twice – once after Sherlock had come back from the dead, once at John’s wedding. John had never been very physically demonstrative, certainly not with his male friends, and Sherlock was… Sherlock. As much as he ignored other people’s need for privacy and personal space when it suited him, he himself was very guarded and distant, untouchable. But what if, underneath the haughty veneer, he actually _wanted_ this? What if the way he invaded John’s personal space, the way he would sometimes grip John’s shoulders when he wanted him to think… what if that was simply the only way Sherlock knew how to initiate physical contact?

John's hand continued it’s slow, steady motions through Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock’s breathing deepened, and John felt suddenly unspeakably sad. Sherlock sometimes hugged Mrs Hudson, or kissed her on the cheek, but as far as John knew he didn’t get any affection anywhere else. And maybe he wanted it, needed it, but John didn’t invite it, so Sherlock kept his distance because that was the only thing he had ever known. What kind of friend was John, if he didn’t recognise this kind of need in Sherlock? He was Sherlock’s closest friend. He should know.

He could be wrong, of course. It could be just the concussion talking. But maybe it wasn’t. Sherlock could get lonely just like anyone else. Maybe he was lonely, now that he and John spent so much less time together than before, because John really needed to keep his job and couldn’t come running for every case, and he wanted to spend time with Mary as well. There were still crime scenes and dinners and chases and laughter, but it was much less time than they used to spend together before, and Sherlock didn’t really have anyone else. He was fond of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and probably Mycroft (though it would be better not to mention that one aloud), but John knew he wasn’t flattering himself that he was in a very different category. He had wondered sometimes, before and after he had moved in with Mary, if Sherlock felt a little… abandoned, but he seemed fine. There were his usual jabs about John’s _boring life_ and _pedestrian marriage_ , but that was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Except he wouldn’t exactly let it show, would he? Of course not. Sherlock didn’t understand emotions very well, so he preferred to pretend they didn’t exist. John was supposed to be able to navigate this territory, but he’d been so focused on making sure that Sherlock didn’t get himself killed and ate and slept even when John wasn’t there to nag him about it that he hadn’t considered that Sherlock could need his help in a different area.

And if having his hair stroked on occasion was what Sherlock needed, then John would do it. It might be a bit awkward at first, or maybe John was wrong and Sherlock would rebuff him, but John wasn’t going to risk Sherlock depriving himself of something John could easily offer. Not for the world.

Sherlock was properly asleep now. John withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s curls and found his phone to text Mary that he wasn’t going to be home tonight. She was probably asleep by now, but she would be worried if she woke up and he still wasn’t back. Then he considered his options. He could sleep on the floor, except then his back would never forgive him, or he could sleep on the sofa, but it would be annoying to have to get up to check on Sherlock. Sherlock’s bed was big enough, and John was long past caring about what things looked like. Sherlock’s bed it was, then. John was pretty sure Sherlock would turn out to be someone who disliked sharing the covers, though, so he decided to find an extra blanket for himself. There should be some spare ones in his old bedroom, unless Sherlock had turned it into a laboratory or something.

It was a bit strange, going up the stairs. John hadn’t been up in his old room ever since he’d moved out, but it was pretty much the same as he’d left it. It took him a while to notice that it was a bit too much just as he’d left it – the air wasn’t stale, and there wasn’t nearly enough dust. Maybe a week’s worth, but hardly more. Whoever did the dusting hadn’t been very thorough, however – there was a thicker layer of dust in the corners of shelves and on the lower part of the window frame. Mrs Hudson would have done a better job. But then… the idea of Sherlock with a dust cloth in his hand was simply ludicrous. And what would he need this room for, anyway?

Then it occurred to John that maybe Sherlock was looking for a new flatmate, and was trying to keep the room clean for viewings. John didn’t like that idea one bit, feeling like someone was trying to invade his territory, which was really horrible of him, considering that just a few moments ago he’d been worried about Sherlock being lonely, so really he should be glad if Sherlock found someone to keep him company. The rest of the flat was still a mess, though, so that theory didn’t make much sense, John realised, and tried not to feel too relieved at the thought. 

He found a blanket, and left the mystery of the missing dust behind. He’d ask Sherlock about it tomorrow. Back in Sherlock’s bedroom he stripped down to his pants and vest, set his alarm, and went to sleep next to Sherlock’s curled up form.

It felt like it couldn’t be more than five minutes later when his alarm blared. Sherlock was already stirring and waking up when John switched it off and turned to Sherlock to shake his shoulder, and then he opened his eyes, looked at John and said, “You’re in my bed.”

“That deduction really isn’t up to your usual standard,” John told him sleepily.

“It was an observation, not a deduction. Really, John, after all this time you could have learnt the difference,” Sherlock said, turning towards John, and even in the dim light John recognised the assessing look Sherlock was giving him. John supposed there was no need to ask Sherlock what year it was when he was so obviously himself within a few seconds of waking up, casual disdain of John’s intelligence and all. 

“Why are you in my bed?”

“I’m too old to sleep on the floor. Problem?” John hoped there wasn’t because he really didn’t want to move.

“You stroked my hair earlier,” Sherlock said instead of a reply.

Oh God, where they really going to talk about this? In the middle the night?

“Yes,” John sighed, shifting so that he was facing Sherlock, because he refused to be embarrassed about this. He simply refused, and his brain should accept his refusal just about now. “You seemed to like it.”

Sherlock said nothing, and that told John everything, because if Sherlock hadn’t liked it, he would have happily pointed out John’s lack of observation skills. And since John was still half asleep, it seemed like a good idea to burrow his fingers in Sherlock’s curls again, just to prove to himself that he wasn’t embarrassed.

It was different this time, now that they were lying face to face and looking at each other, but not bad. Sherlock sighed and his eyelashes fluttered shut.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Sherlock breathed, but John didn’t have to be a deductive genius to notice, even in the dark, that the expression on Sherlock's face was similar to the one he wore when listening to a piece of classical music he particularly enjoyed, and so John didn’t stop.

Apparently he fell asleep with his hand buried in Sherlock’s hair, because that’s how he woke up hours later, having forgotten to set the alarm again. Some medical professional he was.

He cursed under his breath, propped himself up on one elbow and shook Sherlock’s shoulder gently.

“Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock made a displeased sound and buried his face in the pillow.

“I need you to wake up and look at me, Sherlock, then you can go back to sleep.”

Sherlock turned his face towards John and opened his eyes with extreme reluctance.

“There you are. What’s the first element in the periodic table?” John asked, aware that enquiring who the Prime Minister was wouldn’t be very helpful.

“Hydrogen,” Sherlock said, voice rough with disuse. “I’m concussed, not _brain dead.”_

John smiled at him, but Sherlock had already closed his eyes again.

It was almost half past seven, and John decided he might as well get up and take a shower, especially since his body clearly knew it was a Saturday and therefore Morning Sex Day, which was a bit inconvenient, given the circumstances.

It was all slightly more difficult to deal with, in the daylight. Friends weren’t supposed to share a bed and pet each other’s hair. Except he and Sherlock had never been ordinary friends, had they? You weren’t supposed to kill not very nice men for someone you’d only just met either. Sherlock and John just worked differently. They always had. This was just an aspect John hadn’t considered before because it hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock might want it, and it should have, it really should have. There was nothing wrong with it just because it was unusual. Sherlock was unusual, so it made perfect sense, actually. It was fine.

John got dressed and went to poke around the kitchen looking for something non-poisonous for breakfast. He contemplated the various coffee machines, but decided it was safer to have tea when he didn’t know what Sherlock had used them for. The fridge was mostly full of things he didn’t want to look at too closely, but he finally managed to find half a loaf of bread, a can of beans and even an unopened bottle of milk that wasn’t past its sell-by date.

Sherlock emerged about an hour later, when John was busy texting back and forth with Mary, quite enjoying the opportunity the night spent away from home gave him to flirt with his wife in a way reminiscent of the early days of their relationship. 

“How’s your head?”

“A bit better.” Sherlock was looking at John like John was an interesting piece of evidence, which was a bit funny when Sherlock’s hair was sticking out in every direction and he still had pillow creases on his face.

“Beans?” John offered, though he was unsurprised when Sherlock shook his head. “You’ll have toast, at least,“ John told him, not a question.

“And tea,” Sherlock said, and it sounded like he thought he was doing John a favour. He flopped down on a chair, clearly expecting John to make his breakfast. John didn’t really mind – he would be lying if he said that he never missed the easy domesticity they’d shared before he moved out.

He put the kettle on and two slices of bread in the toaster, and then, feeling brave, ruffled the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock tensed.

“All right?” John asked, mentally trying to convince himself that this was not awkward, no, not at all.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and John moved his hand down Sherlock’s neck and squeezed his shoulder, lingering slightly before removing his hand.

“Good.” He was unsure how to proceed. The thought that Sherlock might have been secretly touch-starved all the time John had known him and John hadn’t noticed was physically painful, and he was determined to make up for it now if it was what Sherlock wanted. But he had to admit it was an unexplored area for him, and he’d have to tread carefully because if Sherlock suspected John pitied him or was trying to coddle him, it would all go up in flames.

“My mother used to do that. Stroke my hair,” Sherlock said, in that formal tone he used when he was out of his depth. “When I was a child. I find it… soothing.”

John forced himself not to stop in surprise as he was pouring hot water over a tea bag. Sherlock so rarely volunteered any information about his childhood.

“What else do you find soothing?” John asked carefully as he placed a steaming mug and a plate of toast in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, and it was impossible to tell if he simply didn’t want to say or if he really didn’t know. 

John sat back down, watching Sherlock, who was buttering his toast without looking at John. John understood Sherlock better than anyone, but he still found it impossible to tell what might be going on under those curls.

“Are you looking for a new flatmate?” John asked, remembering.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Just, my room. My old room, I mean. You’ve kept it clean.”

Sherlock took a bite of his toast and chewed it very slowly before replying.

“I play the violin there sometimes. Don’t want to wake Mrs Hudson.”

John had a sudden vivid image of Sherlock standing by the window in the upstairs bedroom, between the bed and the wardrobe, playing one of those wistful melodies, and for some reason it made John’s heart clench.

“I still find it hard to believe you’d willingly do more than the necessary amount of cleaning.”

Sherlock shrugged again. “I anticipated the situation when a case might keep you here overnight, and I know you like your sleeping quarters tidy. There was no evidence to indicate that on such an occasion you’d give preference to my bed.”

“That was because you were concussed,” John pointed out. “But, um. Thanks, I guess.”

It… hurt, almost, the thought of Sherlock regularly cleaning the room just on the off-chance that John might want to stay, when Sherlock could never be bothered to clean anything but his scientific equipment while John still lived at Baker Street. Sherlock would never tell John he missed him in so many words, but now it seemed pretty obvious.

Now was a good time, wasn’t it? The perfect moment for some casual affectionate touch. What kind, though? What was appropriate for the undefinable kind of relationship that he and Sherlock shared?

In the end, John settled for a light pat on Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes sharp.

“You think I suffer from touch deprivation and you’ve decided to provide it for me even though it makes you uncomfortable,” he announced. Of course he had figured it out.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a little human contact, Sherlock,” John told him, not withdrawing his hand despite Sherlock’s derisive tone. “And don’t tell me you don’t want it, you’ve just admitted you find it soothing when someone pets your hair.”

“It’s not customary behaviour between friends,” Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on John’s thumb which was moving back and forth on the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Yeah, and you’ve always cared so much about what’s customary.”

“But you do, and you _are_ uncomfortable.”

“Not _uncomfortable_ , just… I’m not used to it, is all. I never thought it was something you’d want. You could have said something, you know. We ordinary people can’t deduce everything.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. There is nothing ordinary about you.”

“You know it’s generally better to compliment people without insulting them at the same time, don’t you?”

“That was a statement of fact, not a compliment.”

John couldn’t help but smile at him as he got to his feet.

“Come here, you,” he said, tugging Sherlock to his feet. He seemed surprised when John pulled him into a slightly awkward hug, but his hands came up to rest on John’s back almost instantly.

It was surprisingly pleasant. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, because Sherlock was wonderful and brilliant and John did love him, in an indescribable way. He smelt of sleep and sweat and his own particular scent, and John thought he could get used to this very easily. He stroked up and down Sherlock’s back, trying to get his muscles to relax. 

“Won’t Mary mind?” Sherlock asked very quietly.

“She’ll probably have fewer problems with this than either of us,” John said. Mary had always been extremely understanding about John’s friendship with Sherlock, having realised early on that it was no threat to her position in John’s life. “She’s pretty amazing, you know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, and then he actually _nuzzled_ against the top of John’s head, which John couldn’t help but find a little endearing. He tightened his arms around Sherlock and held on, because Sherlock deserved all the affection he wanted and he should never have had to go without. John couldn’t really spend more time with Sherlock than he already did, but he could give him this, and he hoped it could go some way to making him feel less lonely, if that was how Sherlock felt. And it was nice, holding onto Sherlock, even though he was way too thin. John thought he could come to enjoy this very much.

And then, as they broke apart, John caught a brief glimpse of something on Sherlock’s face. A drawn expression that looked almost pained. It was just a flicker, gone before John could notice it properly, but it was enough to spark a horrible suspicion.

Sherlock murmured something about a shower, brushing his fingers against the cuff of John’s shirt as he left. John was left staring after him, cold dread settling in his stomach and dispelling the comfortable atmosphere.

He thought about the way Sherlock had leaned into John’s touch. He thought about Sherlock keeping John’s room ready at all times. Playing his violin there. The resigned tone of Sherlock’s voice when he agreed that Mary was amazing. Sherlock’s shaking fingers lighting a cigarette after the wedding. The way Sherlock avoided John and Mary’s flat whenever he could. The long, intense looks Sherlock sometimes gave him. The smiles that were only for John, the way Sherlock said John’s name in greeting.

It was impossible, John told himself. Sherlock wasn’t like that. He didn’t feel things that way. Except… what if he did? What if, by initiating the touching, instead of improving Sherlock’s general well-being John had only managed to unintentionally hurt him? Encouraged feelings he couldn’t return?

But that made no sense. John was pretty sure Sherlock was asexual, for one. That didn’t mean he couldn’t fall in love, of course, but Sherlock had always scorned romance. It was simply unthinkable. And if Sherlock ever fell in love, it would be with someone brilliant and beautiful like himself, nobody like ordinary John Watson.

_There is nothing ordinary about you._

Oh God.

The only person Sherlock could even _tolerate_ for an extended period of time was someone _exactly_ like John Watson – who else _was_ there? John had been so stupid.

What could he do? He could offer no help, no comfort. He had just promised Sherlock that it was okay to want John’s touch and that John would happily provide it. If he withdrew his promise now, Sherlock would feel rejected, and if he didn’t, he would just be making matters worse, wouldn’t he?

Was Sherlock hurting more now, because John had given him a taste of something he couldn’t fully have? How bad was it? How long had it been? Something in John’s chest constricted painfully. The only thing John could do was pretend he didn’t know and spare Sherlock the embarrassment. Or should he remove himself from the picture entirely? Would that make things easier for Sherlock? Or worse? John found it hard to see that leaving Sherlock alone could be a kind thing to do, and he didn’t think he would actually be capable of doing it. The thought of Sherlock alone, without John to watch his back, was worse than Sherlock secretly nursing a broken heart, and that was bad enough.

But maybe John was wrong. Sherlock always said that John’s observation skills left a lot to be desired. Maybe he was just… romanticising things, something Sherlock accused him of on a regular basis. John had never wished to be wrong more in his life, and he’d never had a stronger feeling that he was right.

He heard the water stop in the bathroom, and he knew he only had a few brief moments to pull himself together, to wipe the expression of stunned disbelief from his face and pretend everything was normal. He was going to chide Sherlock for only eating one slice of toast, reply to Mary’s latest text, and pretend that his heart didn’t suddenly weigh a ton. There was nothing else left to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from this quote:  
> “...unrequited love does not die; it's only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded."  
> ― Elle Newmark, The Book of Unholy Mischief


End file.
